


Outside In

by Lilsi



Category: Relationship fic - Fandom, The Bill, drabble - Fandom
Genre: M/M, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilsi/pseuds/Lilsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief look into Craig and Luke's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside In

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction was once posted at Craiggilmore.co.uk a fan site no longer active, so to preserve this story and others, I am importing them to AO3. I did not want the loss of such a large amount of amazing and wonderful fanfiction, it would be such a waste to fans of Craig Gilmore and Luke Ashton to not have the opportunity to enjoy these stories as i have. Since the site is no longer active i have been unable to contact the creators but if you happen to be them under a new pen name and want the fiction to be removed please send me a note!
> 
> Story written by - Alex
> 
> For the CG Kiss Anniversary Challenge

Outside: The sky is grey, the air is thick with rain, cars have their headlights on and, rather optimistically, small children are wearing wellies and rainproofs over tee-shirts and shorts. 

 

Inside: Luke slips from between the covers and into an old uniform shirt that had, once upon a time, belonged to Craig's father, its tails hang down past his knees (lack of height has never been an issue for the Gilmore men).  He cancels the alarm before it wakens Craig – not someone who anyone could describe as a fit to be with until after he's had his morning dose of caffeine.

 

Outside: The young postman swears quietly but expressively as water cascades down inside the neck of his industrial strength waterproof, from the pool that has collected in its hood, as he stoops to the letterbox of number forty-seven and starts feeding a large pile of redirected mail through it.

 

Inside: Luke turns the soggy mail over in his hands and wonders, as he wipes the raindrops from the front of the 'Wish You Were Here' postcard of s _unny_ Whitby, why, like toast, things that come through the letterbox always land  upside down on the floor - especially when, in this house, they only have a couple of inches to fall?  He flips the card over, glances at the untidy scrawl on the back and frowns.  Walking into the freshly-painted kitchen he dumps the post on the work surface then lights the oven before tearing open a packet of croissants.

 

Outside: Pat Evans, the postman (who is already three weeks into his new job, heartily sick of having to agree that, yes: with his brown, curly hair and eyes so dark as to be almost black, inherited from his Greek mother, he looks remarkably like the children's storybook character.) grins at Timmy, currently aged five, who is peeking from behind the curtains at number fifty-three.  If the envelopes of the last few days are anything to go by, and Pat is beginning to know his envelopes, Timmy will be six very soon.

 

Inside: Luke snatches the last apple from amongst the pears and oranges in the bowl on the side and bites down into the thin rosy coloured skin.  Juice sprays onto his arm and he idly sucks it off as he pads across the kitchen.  He stretches up onto his tiptoes to reach the back of the cupboard and joggles a fresh jar of lemon curd to the front of the shelf.  As he lifts it down the kettle beside him on the counter clicks off with a sigh.  Luke echoes the sound as he presses his finger to the switch, holding it down until he can feel the water inside begin to roll.

 

Outside: Almost without realising he is doing it Pat checks that Old Mr Jones has taken his single pint of milk from the step as he pushes an Independent Living brochure and a 'Trooping the Colour' commemorative First Day Cover carefully through the flap of number sixty-five.  The thing he is discovering he likes most about his new job - besides the ever watchful Chris's presence - is the amount of thinking time it gives him.  He's heard tell at the depot that one of the older men has written an entire detective story while walking _his_ route. 

 

Inside: Closing the fridge Luke adds the words 'new kettle' (in capital letters and followed by an exclamation mark) to the bottom of the post-it note stuck to the door.  He pours out two glasses of orange and mango juice and places them onto a tray alongside Craig's coffee; his own tea; the two plates that have the croissants wrapped in a clean warm tea towel sandwiched between them; a jar of chocolate spread; the lemon curd; two knives and a spoon.

 

Outside: Pat's thoughts are full of the monosyllabic, blue eyed, blond haired Chris as he nears the end of Lydstep Crescent.  He dodges to the far side of the pavement as a large four by four, complete with bull bars, powers its way through a large puddle at the edge of the road, but is still soaked up to his knees by its wake.

 

Inside: Craig lays still, listening to the sound of breakfast getting closer against the background hiss of the rain falling outside as Luke tries - he hasn't got used to the fact that the third step from the top creaks yet - to creep quietly up the stairs.  He stretches, feeling the pull in the muscles of his calves as his toes poke out over the end of the bed, arranges himself more comfortably under the covers, allows his eyelids to fall closed and waits.

 

Outside: Still muttering under his breath about inconsiderate drivers, Pat jerks his nearly empty bag across his body like a shield as frantic yapping starts in number seventy-three the second his hand touches the gate.  Only one more street to go, then a short walk to the pick up point and, he hugs the bag closer to his chest, Chris will be there and maybe, _maybe_ , finally they'll get a chance to talk.  Unless, Pat frowns, tucking a reluctant postcard fully through the slot to meet its fate, he's **not.**

 

Inside

 

Luke puts his coffee cup down onto the chest of drawers by his side of the bed.

 

“Hideous day outside,” he announces, tucking his foot under the edge of the mattress and balancing the tray across his thigh whilst he waits for Craig to sit up and take his tea.

 

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” Craig mumbles into his pillow.

 

“You can't fool me! Sit up, the breakfast's going cold!”

 

Craig pushes himself upright and takes a mouthful of tea from his mug before speaking again.

 

“Feeling grumpy this morning are we?”

 

Luke places the tray across Craig's thighs and slides back into bed beside him.

 

“Not yet,” he says meaningfully, reaching beneath the covers.

 

Craig grabs at the tray.

 

“You're going to get a lap-full of lemon curd if you're not careful!”

 

“I don't mind if you don't.”

 

Craig pauses in the act of tearing a croissant in half.

 

“One minute you're telling me to hurry up the food's getting cold and the next you're groping me, what's it to be?”

 

Luke reaches out to take a croissant from the pile.

 

“Food first?  Sex after?”

 

Craig slaps Luke's hand lightly away.

 

“You know how I hate crumbs in the bed.”

 

 

Outside

 

Heaving a sigh of relief Pat climbs into the Royal Mail minibus, he's the first one aboard, and chooses to sit right next to  the driver.  Carefully placing his dripping wet bag on the seat between him and the door he arranges his long legs under the dashboard: it's not exactly the most comfortable position he's ever been in, but that's got nothing at all to do with the seating arrangements except that it's Chris sitting next to him.

 

“So...” he begins conversationally, ignoring the churning in his stomach – he's nineteen after all, and breakfast was hours ago. “Where next?”

 

“Siskin Road, for Dan.  What do you think?”

 

“I think,” Pat says carefully, “that Dan's a good looking bloke, but he's not my type – you are.”

 

Chris's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, as he continues to stare fixedly through the rain soaked windscreen.

 

Breakfast was _hours_ ago--Pat desperately holds on to the thought as he opens his mouth to speak--he can't possibly be going to throw up, no matter how much it feels like it right now.  He scoops up his bag, blindly hitching his way along the seat towards the door .

 

“I've got this wrong haven't I?  I thought...” His cheeks are burning.  “No, forget that.  I am _really_ sorry!  I'll get out now.  Forget I said anything, I won't bother you again.” 

 

Chris's hand falls lightly onto his shoulder.

 

“Pat.”

 

He stops with the door partially open, his hand trembling on the handle.

 

“What?” he manages.

 

“You're not wrong.”

 

 

Inside

 

Luke props himself up on one elbow, swallowing a last mouthful of cold croissant and watches as Craig finally gets round to looking at his share of the post.

 

“Have you seen how long it took for that postcard to get here?”

 

Craig shakes his head and continues reading.

 

“Postcards always take a long time.”

 

Luke snorts derisively.

 

“Postcards from abroad!  That's from Whitby and it's taken eleven days, that's nearly two weeks! It was posted on the eleventh, the day after we moved in.”

 

“Technically Whitby is 'abroad'. Did you read it?”

 

“It wasn't addressed to me.” Luke says, virtuously.

 

Craig grins.

 

“You couldn't make it out could you?”

 

“No,” Luke admits,  “Who's it from?”

 

“You mean you didn't recognise the writing?”

 

Luke shakes his head.

 

“Should I?”

 

“It's from Reg.”

 

“Reg? You gave Reg our address?  What on earth would you do that for?”

 

“Why shouldn't I?  Reg is nice enough and after all-”

 

“Do I need to feel jealous?” Luke growls, snatching at the card. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

 

Craig fends him off.

 

“After all,” he says again, “he is partly responsible for us getting together in the first place.”

 

“He was kidnapped!  It's not like he introduced us or anything.”

 

“Do you want to know what he has  to say or would you rather get your knickers in more of a knot than they are now?”

 

“I do not wear knickers!” Luke splutters.

 

“Briefs then, incredibly brief briefs, which you know, look _really_ good on you by the way.”

 

 

Outside

 

Chris touches a finger to his lips.

 

“I don't believe you just did that. There's people walking by outside.”

 

Pat picks nervously at the strap of his post bag.

 

“You said I wasn't wrong.”

 

“You're impossible you know that?  Just because I'm gay - what gave you the impression I wanted you to kiss me?”

 

“The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching, and pretend to scowl before you look away again for a start.”

 

“Am I really that obvious?”

 

“To me you are but you know...”

 

“What?  What do I know?”

 

“I fancy you like crazy,” Pat mutters.

 

“How was I supposed to know that? I wasn't even sure you were gay!”

 

 

Inside

Luke stands at the kitchen window staring moodily out of it, as Craig puts the washing up away behind him.

 

“What's the matter grumpy Gus?”

 

“Wales,” Luke sighs, nodding his head towards the weather outside, “it's August but it always seems to be raining.  Why have we moved here again?”

 

Craig wraps his arms around Luke's waist.

 

“Cardiff needs police officers and a 'fresh start as far away from Sun Hill as possible' I think was what you said you wanted, when I was finally declared fit for duty again in June.”

 

“I'm surprised either of us got any sort of recommendation from Inspector Gold though after, what was it you told her she was that day at the hospital?  An 'interfering cow'?”

 

Craig grins.

 

“I'm sure I used stronger language than that.”

 

"You used language I didn't even know you knew,” Luke agrees.

 

“She had no right to poke her nose in the way she did and she knew it.  She could see the state you were in and she just didn't care.  In she waded, throwing her weight about, expecting us both to go along with her-”

 

“All to go along with her,” corrects Luke, “Kerry, knew, deep down she knew, that I'd been lying to her for months.  All she wanted in the end, I think, was for someone to tell her the truth.  I just wish I'd been able to do it myself.  Having to keep on working at the same station afterwards was a nightmare for both of us, it was pure spite on Gina's part - the only thing that could possibly have made it worse is if Kerry had been pregnant.”

 

They both stand silent, musing on what might have been.

 

Luke turns in Craig's arms and rests his head on Craig's shoulder.

 

“This was what you wanted too though wasn't it?”

 

“I want whatever makes you happy.”

 

Luke slips his fingers inside Craig's shorts, stroking him slowly.

 

“You know what would make me happy right now?  If you're up for it...”

 

Craig hitches him closer.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Feels like it to me,” whispers Luke.

 

 

Outside

 

Chris drives his vanful of gently steaming postal workers back to the depot. 

 

 

Inside

Craig and Luke are sprawled across the blanket spread out on the living room floor, one of Craig's long legs hooked over Luke's thighs, their heads resting beside each other on a pile of cushions.

 

Craig lifts his head.

 

“Listen.”

 

“I can't hear anything.” Luke mumbles against Craig's cheek.

 

“Exactly.  I think it's stopped raining.”

 

Outside

“I was expecting some sort of bed-sit.” Chris says as he looks up at the tidy little terraced house with it's tiny, neat square of garden.

 

Pat hesitates, with his key in the front door.

 

“I live with my parents,” he explains with all the dignity his nineteen years can muster for the confession, “they're both at work, so we won't be disturbed.  Still want to come in?”

 

 

Inside

Pat walks into his bedroom clutching two mugs of tea in one hand and an open packet of digestive biscuits in the other, Chris is waiting for him.

Outside

Luke and Craig walk down the road in the warm sunshine.  Brightly coloured balloons are hanging on the door of number fifty-three and squeals of delighted laughter are coming from inside.  Further down the street Mr Jones is standing at his gate, he nods in greeting as they pass by.  He and Craig both scowl as a four by four drives past, windows wide open, music blaring, hotly pursued by a Jack Russell Terrier yapping fit to burst.

 

“Ah well,” Luke says, mentally making a note of the vehicle's number as he loops his arm through Craig's, “at least it's stopped raining.”


End file.
